The Christmas Kite

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  “The water’s calm today,” Jordan murmured. “Only a faint breeze rippling its surface.”

  He turned to her as if they were old friends, chatting, their previous conversation forgotten.

  “Do you miss the cabin?”

  His disjointed discourse confused her. But she didn’t draw him back. “Not the cabin, but my closeness to the water. I miss swimming.”

  “You’re welcome to swim here. Anytime.”

  “Thank you. That would be nice. At the apartment, I can look out at the marina and see the pleasure boats and the ferries heading for the island, but it’s not the same as a sandy beach.”

  “Nothing is as quiet and as soul-stirring as the beach, is it?” He lifted his eyes again to the lake. His gaze swept the vista, from the awesome suspension bridge, past the quaint island, to a distant ship on the horizon probably making its long trek from the St. Lawrence Seaway to Chicago.

  Meara left him in his solitude, pondering her own thoughts. But she jolted to awareness when he smacked his hands together, revitalized.

  “Hungry?” He spoke to Mac. “I’m starving.”

  “Starving,” Mac answered, and rose from his preoccupation with the mounds of sand, seashells and, of course, Dooley. He wandered toward them, sand clinging to his denim pants and sprinkled on his glasses.

  Meara rose. “We’d better get going, then,” she said.

  “Going? No,” Jordan said, “you’re welcome to eat here. You fed me dinner once. Now it’s my turn.”

  She flopped back into her chair. “But—”

  Mac put his finger against her lips. “No but, Mama,” he said.

  They laughed at his serious expression, and he repeated his words, his finger lingering on her mouth.

  “I can’t say no to that, can I?”

  “I don’t think so.” Jordan rose. Dooley joined them, charging up the path, and they followed in his sandy paw prints.

  Inside, Mac had the job of filling Dooley’s dish with four large scoops of dry food, and Jordan stared into the refrigerator, locating the fresh Italian sausage and a variety of greens for a tossed salad.

  Meara worked on the salad while Jordan prepared the meat, and sauteed peppers and onions. After eating the meat and vegetables on a bun and a large helping of salad, they were filled. A bag of store-bought cookies brought a smile to Mac’s face, along with a dish of ice cream for dessert.

  Sitting over coffee, Meara thanked him. “You certainly know how to come up with an impromptu dinner. Peanut butter and jelly might have been my offering.”

  “You were in luck. I went to the grocery store before you arrived this morning. Thinking ahead.”

  Mac scraped his spoon against the ice-cream dish.

  “If you keep that up, you’ll eat glass chips, Mac,” Meara said.

  “I like ice cream.” He grinned and licked the bowl.

  “Mac, shame on you. That’s not at all polite.”

  Jordan lost the battle against hiding his amusement and released a hearty chuckle. “But it’s honest and natural.” He ruffled Mac’s shoulder. “I like ice cream myself, pal. But when you’re my age, you’re not allowed to lick the bowl.”

  “Not allowed,” Mac repeated, setting the dish on the table. He rose and headed toward the living room, nuzzling Dooley.

  “You’re so good with him.” She warmed at his tenderness. “Like a father. Mac thinks so much of you. He’s done more with you than he ever did with Dunstan. Much more.”

  “I’m not his father, Meara.” His eyes flashed with fire. His jaw tightened and he spoke between clenched teeth. “I don’t have a son.”

  Ashamed of her blatant comment, her face flamed with embarrassment. She had put him in a defensive position. Why hadn’t she thought? Any man would feel trapped by her “like a father” comment.

  “I’m getting too close to him,” he said. “Maybe I need to distance myself. For Mac’s sake.”

  As much as she hated his words, he was right. If Mac got any more attached to him, it could only cause her son more hurt. “I understand.”

  He rose and carried dishes to the sink. She joined him, her mind whirring in consternation and humiliation. She’d overstepped every social rule she’d ever learned. She had pushed him into a corner.

  “Mac, we need to go. Jordan has more things to do than entertain us.” She faced her host, forcing her eyes to hold his at full attention. “Thanks so much for amusing Mac and for the nice day. And dinner. It was wonderful.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rattled, she held her hand out, and he took it, holding her palm against his, her pulse pounding against his flesh. With a gentle squeeze, he released her fingers. She reached out to Mac and moved to the door in one sweep.

  “Good night, Jordan.” She hesitated for one shivering moment.

  “Goodbye,” he answered. “So long, Mac.”

  With tears blurring her path, she pushed her son through the doorway, closed the screen and climbed into the car. Her last sight was Jordan silhouetted in the doorway, his words ringing in her ears.

  Goodbye.

  Chapter Nine

  The telephone’s ring brought Jordan in from outdoors. For some reason, he’d been motivated to plant some flowers in the empty beds along the front of the house. For the past two years the grass and weeds had infringed upon the original plot, but today, he’d pulled them and covered the area with a bright mixture of impatiens.

  He pulled off his work gloves, leaving them on the porch, and answered the phone. Otis’s voice greeted him.

  “Problems?” Jordan asked.

  “You know how the grapevine works. I heard from Dawson, next door, that Hatcher is miffed. He knows you offered Cliff Scott a better price for the shop than he’s willing to pay, and from what I’ve heard, he’s trying to stir up trouble for you.”

  “Trouble? What kind?”

  “I’m not sure. Dawson said he’d heard that he’s going to the zoning board. What do you think he’s after?”

  Jordan rubbed his jaw. “We checked on the church’s distance from his proposed saloon, and we can’t stop him that way. He can’t be worried about that.”

  “Right. So, what do you think he’s looking for?”

  “Can’t imagine. Let me think about it. And thanks, Otis, for the warning. If you talked to Dawson, then you’re aware that Cliff Scott is selling me the store. We just signed the agreement yesterday.”

  “Yep. I guess Cliff told Hatcher you gave him the better offer and he’d rather stick with someone he knows.”

  “I can see why Hatcher’s upset. He likes to be the winner.” Jordan’s mind churned, trying to fathom Hatcher’s line of thinking. “But I can’t imagine what kind of trouble he’s stirring up. I’ll get back to you, Otis, and thanks again for the warning.”

  After he hung up, he grabbed a soda and returned to the flower bed. The last few flowers sat in the plastic cartons, waiting to be planted, and he slipped on the gloves and kneeled to finish the job.

  Life seemed to be tugging him out into the world again. But no longer did he feel the strong urge to resist as he’d done months ago. Hatcher’s plan to buy the property and his fight to save it prodded him as he went into town—especially now that he had a building to handle. Meara and Mac sparked his yearnings for a family and his need to let the past rest in a quieter grave.

  Of late, he handled the memories of Lila and Robbie with less pain, with less longing to hold them in his arms. The God Lila trusted had a different plan than Jordan had had for his life. His choice was nil. Now it was over, done, complete, final. A man couldn’t conjure his loved ones back to life. And Lila would want him to stop grieving and move on. If any woman loved life, it was she.

  But perhaps his son’s death was the hardest pain to bear. Eight years old, his life still ahead of him, turned to ashes before he experienced one glowing moment. No tears, but a fleeting sensation of anger rose in Jordan. Yet even anger was useless.

  The last crimson fl
ower rested in its new home, and Jordan pressed the rich, moist soil around its tender roots. The earthy aroma of new growth filled his senses. Tender roots, new life—like a child ready to grow and blossom. Like Mac. And maybe like his own stilted, interrupted life.

  After he gathered everything and picked up the trowel, Jordan carried the empty containers to the garage and tossed them in. He slid off the work gloves. In the gloomy shadows something tugged at him, and he surveyed the boxes and cartons stored against the wall.

  Books and lecture notes—his college textbooks caught his interest. Blair’s visit had stimulated his memories. He pulled open the top carton, reached inside and pulled out the first book he touched. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. No, not the Bard. He stared into the box, reading the next title: The Bible as Literature. He folded the box lid and carried the thick book into the house.

  Placing the textbook on the kitchen table, he viewed the title and wondered why he’d brought it inside. Perhaps Meara’s interest in God had stirred his curiosity. He poured a mug of thick, ripe coffee, his stomach balking at the acrid odor, and slid onto a chair.

  His fingers tapped against the blue hardcover as he sipped the aged brew, his mind swinging from Hatcher’s scheme to Meara’s God. On a whim, he drew his finger through the dog-eared leaves and flipped the book open. The New Testament.

  Jordan stared at the page and focused on a verse. First Corinthians 13:1. Why? Had chance prompted him to turn to the Bible’s most beautiful, complete description of love? He had no need to read the verses. He knew them by heart. His students loved this section of the Bible, whether viewed as literature or God’s Word. It spoke of basic human values, basic human need.

  Skimming the lines, he faltered at verse twelve. Like the string of a kite, the words strained his thoughts, tugging his heart and brain. “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror, then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part, then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

  Was this his life? Pieces of a puzzle spilled out on a table, pushed into place section by section. The picture offered only a brief glimpse of abstract reality, unclear and incomplete. But in time the image merged and grew into a total picture, a whole, full existence. Perhaps someday he would understand.

  He was spurred into action. He would take a ride to town to find out what he could, maybe talk to other store managers. If Hatcher was riled, who knew what new ploy he might be generating?

  Customers wandered through the shop, intrigued with the unique kites. Jordan’s creations were expensive, and families looking for ways to amuse their children had no intention of spending that kind of money for a kite.

  Meara wanted to encourage Jordan to add the less-expensive tissue-paper ones she remembered from her childhood—like the ones she had bought Mac—at least something more affordable. But she hadn’t seen Jordan for a couple of weeks, not since she had bungled with her “like a father” reference. Over and over she questioned why she had ruined their friendship by unnerving him with her comment.

  Too late. She’d messed things up good. Perhaps Otis would talk to him about the toy kites. They would be good for business. But then, why did she care? It had nothing to do with her.

  But it did. The shop had to do with Jordan…and Jordan, well, he touched her heart whether she wanted him to or not.

  The bell jangled on the shop door, catching her attention, and she stepped away from the counter where she was sorting the dowels and dyes that Jordan carried in the store for would-be kite-makers. She headed toward the portly gentleman who paused at the counter, his attention sweeping the walls and ceiling displays. In passing, she adjusted two soft-cover books on the art of simple kite-making that stood among a small assortment.

  “May I help you?” Meara asked as she approached the gentleman.

  His attention stayed with the wall hangings. “You sure have a lot of kites.”

  She didn’t like his tone, and her inner voice retorted, This is a kite shop. What did you expect? But instead she smiled and responded with a pleasant “Yes.”

  “Is Baird here?” His gaze darted around the shop again, but this time as if searching for Jordan.

  “No, Mr. Baird isn’t usually in the shop. Can I help you?”

  “He has an apartment rented upstairs, right?”

  His cocky look annoyed her. And she sure wasn’t planning to tell him she lived there. “Yes. The apartment is already rented, in case you were interested in it.”

  He let out a snort. “I’m interested, all right. You can tell Baird he’s breaking the zoning law by renting that apartment…just in case he’s interested.”

  Meara swallowed a gasp that rose in her throat. “Zoning law? What do you mean?”

  “This strip is zoned for business only. Nonresidential. Just tell him Don Hatcher dropped by, okay? And he’d better clear out that apartment or he’ll find himself in real trouble.”

  Before Meara could respond, he spun on his heel with a nasty chuckle and swaggered through the doorway.

  She closed her gaping mouth, yanked her sinking heart back into her chest. What would she do now? This situation had worked so well. A home, a job close by, Mac safe and happy here. Was God punishing her for her contentment? For her newfound freedom? Had she not grieved enough for her dead husband who, other than her son and her name, had given her little else?

  By her own stupidity, Jordan seemed to be rejecting her. And now God. What was left?

  Jordan pulled in behind the kite shop and eyed the enclosed staircase. How would Meara react if he knocked on her door without a phone call—but with an apology? He hadn’t seen her for nearly two weeks. After they parted company on a tense note, he had done nothing to ease the situation or explain it. He’d reacted from fear. Not only fear for Mac, but truly fear for himself. These two people had needs that he didn’t know he could handle. They needed security, contentment and love. Security, he could offer anyone. But the others? Probably not.

  To offer contentment and love, the giver had to be contented and lovable. He wasn’t and might never be. Only time would give him the answer. And in their wake, he could easily drown in the love Meara and Mac had to offer before he knew if he could give any in return.

  Jordan turned off the engine and climbed from the car. He had to see Meara about Hatcher’s visit. And he couldn’t let things go on this way, no matter what rational thinking told him.

  He climbed the staircase and rapped on the door.

  When Meara answered, her face paled as their eyes met. Then she flushed. “Jordan.” His name was a whisper.

  “May I come in? I need to talk to you.” He managed restraint. “But first I want to say I’m sorry—”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “Please, don’t apologize. The blunder was mine. I put you on the spot, and that was wrong.” Her jaw tensed. In the silence, her eyes searched his. “I wanted to phone you. I should have.”

  “No, it was my place to call. I’m the one who overreacted.”

  “I’m glad you came. I’ve miss—” She clamped her lips together, and her sentence hung in the air.

  She didn’t need to complete it. Jordan filled in her words. And he’d missed her and the boy. But he knew better than to say it aloud.

  Meara opened the door wider. “Come in. Please. Mac’s downstairs. He’s missed you terribly. If he notices your car, he’ll be up in a heartbeat.”

  He stepped inside with her words sending a prophetic shiver through him. Despite logic’s warning flares, he responded with his heart. “If he doesn’t notice, I’ll say ‘hi’ on my way out.”

  Yes, the boy missed him. Mac was filled with love and happiness at his attention. The child had needs. And that was Jordan’s concern. Could he protect himself from hurt without hurting the child?

  “Have a seat. I’ll get you some iced tea.” Her words were amiable but distant.

  He wandered into the living room, familiar and cozy, and sank into the chair.


  Meara followed close on his heels and slid a filled tumbler on the table at his side.

  “You said you had to talk to me?”

  “Right.” He wanted to talk about so many things, but wisdom said to get down to business. “Otis told me you had an unpleasant visit from Hatcher yesterday.”

  At the mention of the man’s name, her face paled. “Yes, I wasn’t sure what he meant. He said something about the zoning laws.” She ran her hand across her ashen cheek and pressed two fingers against her untinted lips. “Do you think you’ve really broken the law, letting us rent the apartment?”

  Anger flooded him. Anger and irritation at the presumptuous, inappropriate action of Hatcher. What business was it of his? And what right did he have to cause Meara unnecessary fear?

  “Please don’t worry, Meara. I’m on my way to the clerk’s office, and I’ll check the zoning laws. I know this apartment was rented before I bought it. In fact, I stayed here a brief time before I got the house on the beach.”

  “I don’t want to cause you any problem. We can find another place—”

  “Those were Hatcher’s words and threat, not mine. Let me take care of it, please. Don’t worry. I’ll check it out.”

  Her voice softened. “All right.”

  “I should have expected something like this from him,” Jordan said. “Otis mentioned a while back that he’d heard the man was out to get me in some way.” He rubbed the cords of his neck, wondering if he really was breaking some kind of law. “I didn’t pay much attention. Next time I’ll listen.”

  “I’ll be anxious to hear what you learn.”

  He sipped the tea, watching her sit quietly across from him, her delicate hands clutched in her lap. “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Only in the morning.”

  “It’s supposed to be hot tomorrow. Why not come by in the afternoon? You and Mac can take a swim.”

  “Mac’s afraid of water. We have to be so careful. He gets infections easily.”

  “Then, you can swim, and I’ll keep an eye on Mac for you. We can talk then.”